Thanksgiving dinner, and the turkey is sparkling with the blood of rapture
owls. The electric carving knife hovers above it, quivering, singing its
hushed song of longing, its serpentine cord writhing rhythmically. The
stuffing rustles in anticipation; the cranberry sauce, lovingly pressed
into a can shape by calloused pilgrim hands, pulsates tensely. The song
pauses, and when the knife descends, space itself parts before it. The
turkey is no more.

In the next room, the family is suspended, lifelike, over the various
pieces of furniture. Their faces are grim masks of jocularity pasted onto
their rigid mannequin forms. Their eyes are off center; not by much, but
it's enough. Looking at them all gathered together, the effect is slow to
build but overpowering once established. The room spins. Your gaze reaches
out for the only fixed point, Uncle Grady's left eye. It seems warm, moist,
friendly, like a damp yet cheery island of pleasure in a stormy sea of
rotation. It invites you in.

Once inside, the autoclave takes your coat and guides to you the room you
are to be installed in. The senior technician wipes you down, removes your
clothes, and settles you in. It's going to be a long trip. When you arrive,
the whole family is there, waiting for you before serving Thanksgiving
dinner.

Thanksgiving dinner, and the turkey is sparkling with the blood of rapture
owls...